


Warm Woolen Mittens

by liketolaugh



Series: Means to an End [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Autistic Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Depressed Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Fluff and Angst, Intimacy, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violent Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24182866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liketolaugh/pseuds/liketolaugh
Summary: Markus seeks company and comfort during a storm, Connor learns how to choose clothes and soaks up affection and kindness like a sponge, and neither of them is thinking very clearly.
Relationships: Connor/Markus (Detroit: Become Human)
Series: Means to an End [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1730671
Comments: 25
Kudos: 215





	Warm Woolen Mittens

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a 'Sound of Music' reference.

Markus reminded himself that the appropriated Cyberlife building provided more shelter than the run-down old Jericho ship. He reminded himself that he was well-shielded from the wind and the rain, and that the thunder and the lightning could not touch him. He reminded himself that nothing was wrong, and that the persistent ache of his knees and head was at least half in his imagination.

“Connor,” Markus said quickly, as soon as the other android came in from the storm, making him startle sharply. “Would you like to pick out some clothes?”

Connor stared at him, clearly disconcerted and his hand still on the bar of the half-open door. His wet hair dripped down his forehead past a yellow LED, trickling into his soaked clothes. The sound of the rain was louder with the door ajar, and the threat of rolling thunder was enough to make Markus’ fingers twitch anxiously. It had been growing louder for half the day, sending static shivers up his spine and tightening his throat with unresolved grief.

He needed to move. He needed to talk to someone, or listen, or watch or _something_ other than hide from the storm, but it was one in the morning and most everyone was down for the night. Connor, just coming off guard duty, was the exception.

After a moment, Connor finished closing the door, turned, and met Markus’ eyes, head tilting slightly. Then he looked down and tugged at the hem of his wet shirt, stared at it contemplatively, and looked back up at Markus, brow pinched.

“…I h-have clothes?” Connor said at last, more a question than a reply.

Markus stifled a snicker, feeling a little of the pressure in his chest ease just at Connor’s mystified expression.

It used to be, Markus would go to North on stormy nights. She wasn’t particularly comforting, but she’d keep him company, arguing about nothing or planning supply runs and Cyberlife store raids. She was bright, and loud, and it was easy to forget the storm around her – easy to think about anything but junkyards and police and the skipping beat of Carl’s failing heart.

Then they broke up, and she made it clear that she wanted more space than that, that hours of intimacy were not a thing she wanted from him anymore.

Josh was in South Jericho, of course, though Markus remembered a time when he would stay up with Markus, and he never felt comfortable seeking comfort from Simon, not after Stratford. Lucy, too, valued her solitude and her privacy, as close to terse as she ever got when people treated her like the therapist she used to be.

And anyone else- Markus refused to show uncertainty around them. The last thing he wanted was for any of them to worry.

But Connor was different; Connor had seen him at his worst and still looked at him like he hung the moon. He needed clothes, still in his Cyberlife uniform after two months at Jericho, and something about the way Connor melted for him made him feel stronger, more secure in himself. How could it not, when everything and everyone else made Connor withdraw and silence himself?

And God, but did Markus want that reassurance right now.

“New clothes,” Markus clarified, already taking Connor by the shoulder and steering him on. The quality of the air made him restless and jumpy, unwilling to stall. “Something better than your uniform.”

Connor looked down again, going along with Markus without resistance. “But it, it’s f-fine?”

Markus made to answer, but was cut off by a flash and then the loudest roar of thunder yet, seven seconds apart. The sound made both him and Connor flinch; one of Connor’s hands even half-rose as if to cover his ear, LED flashing red. When Markus looked back up, Connor was staring at him, and Markus’ throat was too thick with static for words. His replaced eye throbbed painfully.

Markus felt bare and raw and exposed.

“…Clothes,” Connor said finally, somehow softer. “Like, like you and North and- and ev-everyone?”

Markus took a breath, nodded, and kept walking. His grip on Connor’s shoulder grounded him, and he tightened it. “We have a storage room of scavenged and sometimes donated clothes. You can look through it.” Rose had been a huge help in that respect, and incoming household androids often exchanged their old clothes for new ones.

Connor didn’t reply, and a quick glance told Markus nothing more. But he didn’t pull away, and Markus led him to the storage room without resistance.

When they were both sitting down, the modest box of clothes spilled between them, Connor stared at the mixed pile, gradually deflated in obvious and exhausted defeat, and said quietly, “I, I don’t kn-know how to pick, pick clothes.”

Would that all problems could be solved with patience and basic compassion.

A streak of lightning, and then thunder cracked, making them both flinch again. Markus’ knees throbbed, and for a moment he could almost feel the shift of unstable plastimetal under his hands. His mouth opened.

“Markus.”

Markus took a breath, bracing himself before he glanced up, meeting Connor’s steady brown eyes. Whatever was making Connor flinch, it didn’t appear to be memories.

He wondered how Connor could meet his death so many times and remain sane. Then he forced his mind back to the matter at hand.

“M-most people pick clothes by- color, cut, or, or feel,” Markus said, stilted at first before picking up speed, straightening up under Connor’s gaze. “They like the graphic on it, or the style, or it’s just their favorite color. You can try things on too, if you’re not sure.”

Connor nodded once, small and painfully hesitant, and then started to root through the pile. Markus pulled his own coat more tightly closed against the phantom feel of rain, and watched.

Two months in East Jericho had made Connor more confident in his routine, but not in anything else; he still rarely said more than two words to anyone but Markus, hid himself away at every opportunity, and at times shut down entirely, becoming stiff and unresponsive.

But they’d captured two new warehouses despite the increased human security, and one of the long-term storage facilities where androids - handed in pre-deviancy out of fear or uncertainty – were being held. A route from East Jericho to South had been firmly secured, and from South Jericho to Rose. In just a few months, they’d start taking police stations, which would let them gain real ground.

It felt, Markus thought guiltily, like things would finally turn out alright, now Connor was helping them.

A flash, and then a crack, and both of them jumped.

(Four deaths at Markus’ hands was probably nothing to the fifty at Cyberlife. At any rate, Connor had never mentioned them.)

Forcibly turning his mind back to the scene in front of him, Markus realized Connor was barely looking at the clothes before he placed them aside, slowly at first and then with increasing focus. It took almost ten minutes before Markus realized Connor was feeling them, running the material between his hands before discarding it. The next time thunder rumbled, Markus was the only one who flinched; Connor’s LED had even turned blue.

Slowly, watching Connor work through one of the first personal choices an android made, Markus’ shoulders relaxed, half a smile playing on his face, confused but fond.

When Connor slowed to a stop, eyes drifting closed as he ran the same length of dark blue cloth between his hands over, and over, and over, Markus cleared his throat.

“Why don’t you try that on?” he suggested, a hint of a static rasp in his throat but the least tense he’d been all night. A thread of fear thrummed up his spine, but it was easier to focus on the way Connor jumped, clutching the shirt to his chest before registering Markus’ words.

Connor blinked at him, and then nodded and dropped the bundle, reaching for the buttons on his Cyberlife shirt. Markus looked away hastily, smiling even as he rubbed at his aching eye, looking anywhere but at the window.

“Markus, I don’t, I’m not-”

Markus turned back to Connor, who was now wearing a soft, shapeless pullover at least two sizes too big for him, his Cyberlife shirt lying in a heap behind him, and a pair of sweatpants that Markus hadn’t seen him set aside. He was rubbing his arms in the same slow stroking motion, but his face was pinched uncomfortably; as Markus watched, one of his shoulders twitched back, and his head turned.

He was _squirming,_ LED flickering blue-yellow-blue _._ Markus wanted to laugh, and the feeling was a divine sort of release.

“What’s wrong?” he asked instead, pushing himself over to sit by Connor.

“I’m, um, not sure, but-” Connor reached back, fingers finding the pullover’s collar and pulling it back, away from his neck. Markus caught a glimpse of a tag inside and blinked, surprised.

On a suspicion, he picked up Connor’s discarded shirt and peeked inside. There was no tag on the inside collar, just a printed label. A huff of amusement escaped him.

“I think it’s the tag,” he told Connor. “We can cut it out. I’ve got scissors somewhere.”

Connor let out an indeterminate noise, and Markus huffed again, biting down a groan as he stood, before disappearing out the door.

It took a few minutes to find the scissors, but when he returned Connor was still holding resolutely onto the collar; it was definitely the tag.

“Hold still,” he warned without thinking, seating himself behind Connor with a thump and a sigh, and then taking the tag from him. Connor went obediently still, and Markus carefully snipped off the stitches holding it in place before pulling away and letting the collar go. Connor let out a breath, considered, and then, slowly, relaxed.

When Markus leaned over to set the scissors down, he realized with a start that Connor was smiling, small and soft, hands running slowly over his arms again.

Markus had never seen Connor smile before.

A flash of lightning broke the moment and made Markus tense in anticipation; the following rumble, deafening and long, made Connor’s smile vanish, and Markus sucked in a steadying breath, hands landing on Connor’s back as if to ground himself in the present.

After a minute, he felt Connor turn, slow and careful, not even dislodging Markus’ hands. Predictably, he leaned into Markus’ touch, but Markus didn’t look up until he spoke.

“Th-thank you, Markus,” he said quietly, sitting curled in front of Markus in what were clearly the softest clothes he could find, lifting one hand to rub his sleeve against his cheek even as the other ran up and down his leg. “I, I think I, I l-like them.”

Markus managed a smile for him, and let his hand run down Connor’s back; the pullover was, in fact, very soft. “That’s perfect, Connor.”

Connor relaxed a little, arm coming up so his cheek rested in the crook of his arm. He looked almost sleepy in his contentment, rather than simply tired, and he let out, perhaps unintentionally, a soft, low hum. He hadn’t moved away from Markus, one hip caught in the cross of Markus’ legs and Markus’ hand low on his back.

A flash, and then a rumble that Markus could feel in his throat, making his chest tighten. He licked his lips and swallowed.

“Did I ever tell you about Carl?” he asked impulsively, knowing he hadn’t. Now that they were still, the silence was too much, and Connor rarely spoke so it was up to Markus, and storms always made him think of Carl. “In a lot of ways I thought of him as a father. He was very kind to me in a way I know few androids have the privilege of experiencing, particularly in their early life.” Connor was watching him, no longer looking so sleepy – maybe even attentive. “He taught me to think critically even as a non-deviant, to choose things when I could… He talked to me, joked with me, cared about me, even taught me to stand up for myself in what ways a machine can.”

Markus let out a shuddering exhale. Connor shifted, almost imperceptibly, and hummed in question. When Markus looked at him, brown eyes and half-dried hair and a steady blue LED, there was no judgement, no envy in his expression, only something like curiosity and maybe concern, if only in Markus’ imagination.

Rumble.

Markus found himself gripping Connor’s arm, and then next breath he took was slow and forced. But Connor was warm and solid and close, and the storm was- away.

“But I can’t even be properly grateful for it,” he confessed, to this silent room and the quiet android next to him, the words crawling out of his throat where he hadn’t dared to utter them to North or Josh or Simon. “Because Carl wasn’t my father, he was my _owner.”_ And that thought still haunted him, as if all his life he’d believed a lie he’d never been told. “Every day for ten years, I woke him up, gave him his medicine, his meals, moved him around, ran his errands- in the beginning he wasn’t even grateful; he called me every name in the book.”

Markus’ eyes burned, his head ached, his knees hurt; bitterness choked his chest and throat, frustration and misery and suppressed hurt.

“And that was my life for ten years,” he told the floor, leaning into Connor, who took his weight easily, still quiet and motionless and _listening._ Thunder cracked and he grasped for Connor’s hand on instinct, and Connor let him take it, a grounding weight between his palms resting on Connor’s knee. “No friends, no ambitions, no desires of my own- just Carl.”

He panted for breath, feeling almost dizzy and shaking slightly. He’d never said any of that to anyone before. He hadn’t dared, not in this place where all of the other deviants had been abused, or beaten, or nearly killed or _worse._ And now he’d vented all of it to Connor, who even as a machine had borne evidence of mistreatment never mentioned but deeply internalized.

Connor’s expression had melted into his usual tired look, but all his attention was still on Markus.

“I suppose that seems superficial,” he added weakly, knowing it was too late and feeling entirely too vulnerable.

“It’s not,” Connor said unexpectedly, with a steel thread of certainty, and then, quieter, “It was a, a be-betrayal of t-trust.”

Markus let out a breathy, grateful laugh tinged with bitterness, turning Connor’s palm in his hands.

“I miss him, though,” he said, the words falling from his mouth unchecked, teetering on the edge of misery. Even the next roar wasn’t enough to stop him. “It’s- it’s worse when it’s stormy, and I can remember him complaining on the way home, and the thunder when I checked the studio, and…” The flow of words caught in his throat, choking him. Connor’s palm was still in his, his hip between Markus’ painful knees. “Have you ever been in a junkyard?”

“…No.”

Markus clenched his jaw, squeezed, and let out the breath he’d been holding. Thunder cracked, and he choked on the next, replacement parts aching and a thick knot in his chest. And it was maybe because of all that that he dared to ask,

“What is death for an android, Connor?”

“It’s nothing,” Connor-58 said matter-of-factly, without missing a beat. He was audibly exhausted, his hand suddenly heavier in Markus’ grip. “It’s, it’s a dark-darkness th-that you can, can, can _taste.”_

Markus looked back up, raw and too tired himself, but Connor was looking at their hands.

He swallowed. The rain beat against the window.

“I wondered if you remembered,” he admitted at last, too honest and too quiet and too raspy. He felt burnt out and hollowed by his outburst, not a good feeling but at least not the uncontrollable turmoil of before.

Connor shrugged. “Can I, can I a-ask you a, a question?”

For a moment, it was just the two of them and the rain and the spin of Connor’s blue-yellow-blue LED.

“…Of course,” Markus said eventually, wary and unsure.

“You told C-Connor-56 a, a story while was-was shutting down. I didn’t h-hear the, the end of it. How, how did it f-finish?”

Markus’ throat closed in a different way, and he slid one of his hands down to hold onto Connor’s forearm, possessive and grounding. Connor was here. Connor was safe.

“…What was the last thing you heard?” he asked.

He remembered that day, of course. None of the other leaders had happened to be present at the time, and Connor had appeared in the same place as Markus only by coincidence, both of them looking into rumors of a city maintenance team that had collectively rebelled and then bolted into the city.

Neither of them had found the team that night, though as it happened they’d found their way to Easy Jericho a few weeks later, short one member. As soon as Connor spotted Markus, it was a hunt, and Connor was absolutely impossible to shake.

There had been a drag to Connor's movements even then, Markus remembered - a painful moment of hesitation between eye contact and pursuit, a hush dampening his voice, a listlessness in his recoveries. But it had been the defeated resignation in the way he stayed down that made Markus forget his cracked torso and his bleeding head and sit beside Connor to hold his hand.

The Giving Tree had been the first thing to come to mind when he looked at Connor - a children's tale Carl had shown him once, one of dozens of 'banned books' Carl kept in his library. He'd recited it just to have something to say, to distract Connor, and Connor, in turn, had not taken his eyes off Markus until he went stiff and still.

It hadn’t taken long. If you were strong enough, with a sharp enough blade, there was a line you could sever through an android’s back that would bleed them out in minutes.

“The t-tree was just, just a stump,” Connor said, bringing Markus back to the present. “And she, she, she had n-nothing left to, to give.” He hesitated, glancing up at Markus, and then added, tone-perfect and disconcerting in Markus’ own voice, _“My trunk is gone, said the tree. You cannot-”_

Markus took a breath, and almost didn’t hear the next roll of thunder. Even if Markus hadn’t had a perfect memory, the abrupt way the imitation of his voice cut off would have told Markus that Connor had died in the middle of the line.

“You almost made it to the end,” he said quietly, mentally running over the rest of the story. “The tree had nothing left to give, but the boy said all he wanted was a place to rest. So the tree invited him to sit, and he did, and the tree was happy.”

It was a bittersweet story. Should he have told a happier one, or was it just right, or too childish?

When he dared to look at Connor again, the other android wasn’t smiling, but neither did he seem angry or sad; he rarely did. To Markus’ surprise, though, Connor looked almost contented.

“I al-always wondered how-how-how it ended,” Connor confided, head tilting just slightly. “Even- um. Before.” He met Markus’ eyes earnestly. Soft clothes, steady eyes. “I was glad you, you stayed.”

A flash and a crack. Connor’s fingers twitched in Markus’, and Markus winced, swallowed, and then nodded silently. Connor’s forehead creased a little, studying Markus, and after almost a minute he spoke again, halting and uncertain.

"I've... liked it, i-in Jericho."

Markus didn't quite manage a smile in return, hand tightening on Connor's arm as if to initiate an interface. "Have you," he murmured wryly, because Cyberlife wasn't much to compete with and Connor spent as much time asleep or outside the walls as possible.

Connor missed the subtle sarcasm, though, nodding solemnly. He didn't seem to mind the shift in grip, fingers grazing against Markus' forearm as if afraid of returning it.

"It's too, too much s-sometimes," he said, "and I don't know-know what to d-do with it. But, but people move around, and talk. Lucy lets-lets me h-hide in her room." Markus hadn't known that. "And- some, some of the others on the g-guard ro-ro-rotation smile and talk to, to me." He faltered again, looking increasingly uncomfortable, and his free hand twisted into his pullover. "It's too, too much. But it's n-never. Bad."

Markus found himself smiling and squeezed Connor’s arm through the next roll of thunder.

“Good,” he said firmly. “I’d never want you to doubt your place here.”

Connor hummed, low and noncommittal, and Markus suppressed a fond smile. Connor looked like he’d be quite happy never speaking again.

But the storm was still going, and Markus didn’t want to be alone just yet, and before he could think twice, he asked, “Would you like to watch me paint?”

Connor nodded, slow and reserved, but that was more than good enough for Markus. In minutes, the two of them cleaned up the small mess they’d made, and then Markus took Connor’s hand without thinking and led him to the little room that belonged to Markus.

Markus’ first painting had burst out of him in minutes, like it had been brewing all his life, just waiting for a chance to come out. He could still do that, if he wanted, but usually he preferred to take his time, enjoying the strokes and the colors and the slow development of the piece.

And maybe to allow himself a few prickling of safe, low-stakes uncertainty as well.

Markus set up his station quickly, just a spot on the floor, and he looked up at Connor, hovering hesitantly, and patted the floor beside him. “You can sit here, if you want, Connor.”

Connor instead settled in a place just as close but slightly behind Markus, close enough that when Markus leaned back, his right shoulder brushed Connor’s left, and one of Connor’s knees pressed gently against his back. Markus hid a faint half-smile, and, bearing in mind his audience, mulled over pent-up ideas for a few minutes. (Markus didn’t have much time or many materials, but he always had ideas.)

His mind settled, and with carefully steady hands, he set up his workstation and the thick paper he allowed himself. When he glanced up, Connor was watching, folded up into as dignified a ball as Markus could have imagined, and Markus almost wanted to-

Thunder cracked. Markus’ fingers twitched around a carefully washed paintbrush, and he turned too quickly back to the canvas, picked a color, and started.

It was Carl; in this weather, of course it was Carl. Smiling gently with deep, kind crinkles around his eyes and cheeks. With an android jacket draped over his lap like a blanket, Markus thought, and a remote control held loose and languid- but there was no reason to get ahead of himself.

Markus paused to shiver through the next long roll of thunder, blindingly loud, and realized that half an hour had passed and it was almost two-thirty in the morning. He glanced over his shoulder, wondering if Connor had fallen asleep.

He hadn’t. He was still folded up, his arms on his knees and his cheek in the crook of one arm, eyes half-lidded and heavy, but he was awake, and met Markus’ eyes when he looked.

Inexplicably pleased, Markus smiled at him and went back to work, feeling a little looser.

In the absence of conversation, Markus just talked, quiet but constant, about colors and details and lighting and nothing in particular. Connor hummed each time Markus paused, still awake and still listening, and Markus focused on that and the paintbrush instead of the drum of rain on the roof.

Eventually Connor was pressed against Markus, a warm and solid wall behind him and their legs awkwardly pressed together. Markus leaned back, and Connor didn’t seem to notice.

When the next crack of thunder made Connor twitch, Markus felt it.

“Why don’t you like the storm?” he asked impulsively, rinsing his brush in gentle motions that smeared paint over his thumb and left some in the creases of his palm.

Connor didn’t answer for a moment; his surprise at being addressed was almost palpable.

“I like, like the, the rai-rain,” Connor corrected, reserved and almost too soft to hear. “B-but the, the, the th-thunder is, is- _loud.”_

Markus paused, curious and somehow caught off-guard.

“We could probably find earplugs,” he ventured. Or headphones, maybe, something to muffle sound- but Connor shook his head, slow and slight.

“No-no-no th-thank you,” he mumbled. “It’s, um, it’s g-get-getting. Qu-quieter.”

Thunder rolled again, and while he still tensed, Markus realized with relief that Connor was right.

He kept painting anyway, but it came out slowly, in bursts and fragments, and by the time the storm quieted to something only distantly audible it was almost a relief to put the paintbrush down. It was nearly five in the morning by then, and the emotional ordeal of the storm had left Markus strung-out and exhausted.

Connor hummed, and Markus turned to look at him. Despite his exhaustion, he couldn’t help but smile.

While still awake, Connor was clearly losing his fight with sleep, blinking slow and unfocused and head resting in the crook of his arm. His free hand rubbed slowly up and down one leg, and when Markus shifted to reach out and get his attention, he started.

“The storm is over,” Markus explained quietly. “Thank you for staying up with me, Connor. It… means more than you can imagine.”

So much more, to have someone give him space to feel, and company to feel it with, and to have it be _Connor,_ uncertain and hesitant, but considerate and honest both without fail.

Oblivious to Markus’ heartfelt musings, Connor hummed again, more warm than half-attentive as before. He shifted around to put his knees under him, pulled gently at the soft hem of his shirt, gave the painting a lingering glance and then a shorter one to the window, and finally said, “I didn’t, didn’t mind. You n-needed it.”

He looked unsure and regretful almost as soon as the words left his mouth, gaze dropping, and Markus didn’t want that. So he did the first thing his clocked-out and affected system suggested, which was to catch Connor’s chin, lift it up, and kiss him.

Connor stiffened, not responding at all – neither pressing in or pushing away. Markus lingered, drinking in the subtle tingle of electric touch and the closeness of their bodies, but Connor stayed frozen, and eventually Markus all but jerked back, releasing Connor with a mixture of mortification and shame.

The exhaustion must have gotten to him more than he’s realized; being starved for contact and attention didn’t mean Connor was _interested,_ and Markus _knew_ he was still on unsteady footing, unsure of himself and his welcome and the extent of his independence-

Connor blinked at him, brown eyes wide and uncomprehending. His mouth opened a little, and Markus winced, opening his own to apologize even as overwrought tension knotted his chest, and then immediately closing it before he could cut Connor off. But Connor closed his too, and then reopened it, clearly struggling to verbalize something. Markus waited with bated breath, and finally, Connor made a low, confused sound, eyes still on him.

He didn’t look upset, Markus realized suddenly.

Uncharacteristically, Markus hesitated. He and North hadn’t exactly sat down to talk things out – North wasn’t the type, and Markus had been more than happy to keep pace with her, both of them caught up in passion and excitement fuelled by fear and shared ambition.

That approach was unlikely to work on Connor, clumsy and closed-off and unaccustomed to relationships. Instead, Markus held eye contact and picked his words.

“I’d like to do that a lot more,” he said at last, smiling deep and frazzled. “If you think you would too.”

It still took Connor a few moments to interpret that, but as soon as he did, Markus had an armful of Connor, kissing him back with a clear, sweet desperation.

Light with what felt like overtired bliss, Markus accepted it, catching Connor’s arms and letting his skin creep back to interface. Connor opened up, and Markus was wrong – _this_ was bliss, a joy dizzying and bright, the ache of a need being filled for the first time, and Markus laughed against Connor’s mouth and reveled in it.

**Author's Note:**

> ...I'm practicing writing weather.
> 
> I don't usually write romance this intensely, but I hope it comes across as believable anyway. The boys are suffering, please be nice to them.
> 
> Connor has never been this happy before. It'll be a while before he realizes he can be happier.


End file.
